The air smelled of regulation. Flesh and blood seemed out of place in this steel and concrete world, where rule substituted for reason, and the National Anthem, played over loudspeakers, for talk.
“What the hell happened in Galilee?”
But the only hints I got were buried in the nonstop questions rapped out by two sour-faced FBI agents who refused to let me call Ray Havlicek in D.C. Had anyone in Somalia mentioned Disneyland? Had I visited a certain Internet café in Nairobi? Had I ever experimented with strains of leprosy? Was I a Washington Redskins fan?
Let’s go over your records and memories one more time.
I’d locked up men myself over the years. Watched them pacing on closed-circuit TV as I softened them for interrogation. Now, worse than the isolation were the muffled announcements coming through the walls, barely audible and hinting at emergency. Leaves were canceled. Marines were being ordered to pack.
“At least let Chris call her daughter!”
The red light turned white. Was it morning? I heard Chris, out in the hallway, begging someone to, “Let me make one call? For God sake, she’s alone! She’ll be frantic! What’s the matter with you people? She’s a kid!”
Did we stumble onto something someone wants hidden? Damnit, if someone would tell us the problem, we could help figure it out.
The light turned red again, so outside, it was night. Or was it? Was it midday, the sun strong, yellow, hot?
I marked time by counting times when I heard the National Anthem, with trips to the bathroom, by beard growth. I did exercises to maintain bodily rhythm. The workouts filled the cell with sweat and testosterone. I avoided the cot unless I wanted to sleep. When I did sleep, I dozed fitfully, and did not recall dreams upon waking. You measure victory in small increments, and in this case, that meant the illusion of some knowledge of time, some sense of control.
Doing crunches, I went over events in Somalia and Galilee. I did push-ups on my fingertips and replayed interviews but nothing special came to mind. The guards refused to give me pen and paper so I filled in imaginary checklists in my head. I reached the story about the tourists in Galilee, singing. I heard boots stop outside my door and the lock clicked open.
“Get up!” the guard barked. “Hands behind your back.”
I blinked at a dazzling California sun as Eddie, Chris, and I were driven to the airport, where lines of Marines boarded a half dozen Galaxy transports, huge jets capable of long-distance flight. Apparently we were finally permitted to talk. As we stood on the tarmac, a short, exhausted-looking major sauntered close, looked me over with disgust, and said, “So you’re the one who started this.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
He moved off, shaking his head. Chris was staring at me now with something resembling fury.
“What did you do, Joe, when I was making that call?”
“We just talked to the old lady.”
“Sure you did. Those Marines are carrying biogear,” she observed. Her face looked ragged, white, drawn, but her eyes still burned with fierce intelligence and frantic worry for her child. This is not a drill, a loudspeaker announced.
I said, “Aya’s a smart kid. She’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
We were strapped by guards into a row of four out-of-place economy class — style airline seats bolted to the fuselage in back, amid chained-down Humvees, netted food crates and med supplies and ammunition. Our seatbelts had locks on them. Our handcuffed wrists lay in our laps. Eddie said, “I can’t wait to hear the safety announcement. What to do if we go down?” as the massive rear hatch groaned shut and four powerful jet engines roared to life, so we had to raise our voices to talk. At least we had a porthole, a view of sorts, natural light.
Chris said, “I called Burke to tell him about the tourists. He never even came on the line.”
They’d dressed us in quilted jackets against the chill. She smelled of sweat, cheap shampoo, and prison soap. Eddie smelled like a locker room. I probably did, too. Chris said, “Usually I talk with Aya every night. We’ve never gone more than four days without talking, and that time I was in Indonesia, in the jungle.”
Eddie asked, “Does Aya have someone to stay with?”
“My sister. In Reston. But Aya’s independent. She may stay at the loft in case I call. She’ll barrage Burke’s office with calls. She’ll be scared.”
“She’s a resourceful kid,” I said.
“Don’t even go there,” she snapped, and turned away.
“How many days were we in there, Joe?” Eddie said.
“Too many. A week?”
Eddie was staring out the window, looking slowly north to south, east to west, frowning.
“Uno? Take a look out there.”
At first I didn’t see it. I saw Camp Pendleton South dropping away, Munn Airfield, California scrub desert, I-5 Interstate running north to Long Beach and south to San Diego, and the ribbon of gray Highway 76, heading east.
“No commercial planes,” Eddie said. “We should be seeing airliners in holding patterns for San Diego and Long Beach. Check the roads, One. There’s almost nothing moving at midday. And anything moving is trucks.”
My stomach began to throb. The sky was empty of even contrails, in an area normally rife with traffic. All the transports climbed and headed inland, surprise number two. Pendleton Marines were Pacific Marines, and I’d assumed that deployment would carry us in that direction, or maybe south toward Mexico, cartel country, maybe west toward refueling in Hawaii, maybe on to Asia, or up to Canada, for joint maneuvers.
Eddie nodded, seeing my face. “Right, Uno. East. Hey, look who’s here! Ray Havlicek!” I saw the tall, lean FBI agent threading his way around the mass of equipment that blocked our view forward. He wore field colors, dark blue and letters in gold. The former college runner looked wan, pale, but freshly shaven. His expression changed from a grim disapproval when he eyed me to something softer and more sympathetic when he took in Chris, his old girlfriend.
“Boy, did you screw up, Joe,” he said, one hand on the fuselage for balance as the plane hit an air pocket.
“Ray, what did I do?”
“I’m not the one to tell you that.”
“Why are you here?”
“Supervising.”
“How long were we inside?”
He snapped, “For once, shut up. I’m going to put you on with Secretary Burke. If you know what’s good for you, listen to him and listen well. People have been fighting over you for the last eight days in Washington. The shit’s hit the fan everywhere.”
Ah, we’ve been in prison for eight days.
“Take my advice and act contrite, Joe.”
“Act contrite over what?”
“Like you don’t know?”
He produced a tablet and wedged it between my cuffed hands. His thumb hovered over the Activate button. He seemed torn over whether to give further assistance, and then his better side won out. “Joe, apologize and answer questions, without asking any back. This thing went all the way to the White House, but in the end, it’s Burke’s call.”
The ex — Dallas police chief’s face swam into focus as the transport hit another air pocket. His expression had the cold focus of a Roman statue, flesh as marble, eyes rock hard. The lines at his eyes and mouth suggested pressure. Rage almost pulsated off the two-dimensional image on the little screen.
Burke finally told me what my infraction had been. It was so stupid that I wanted to laugh.
I said, “The what? The sandwich?”
“Answer yes or no, Colonel. Were you specifically told that patients were not to eat cheese products? Then, in complete disregard of that, did you order the hospital staff to allow her to have the outside food?”